This Paranoid Dream
by Segdeh
Summary: Mild slash and fluff, for fun, because Rorschach is my favorite character. In a nutshell, Dan has some dreams and fantasies, and they may or may not come true. You decide in the end. Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or its affiliates.


**This Paranoid Dream: Rorschach & Nite Owl II fan fiction**

**Slash, date is circa 1977**

**Callie Hedges**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Watchmen & characters**

Daniel, or the second Nite Owl, as he was more commonly known, had been having the same crazy fantasy for days now. Perhaps it was because he was beginning to think that there was never going to be an opening for him in Silk Spectre's life. And who wouldn't blame her, he often thought; Dr. Manhattan was anatomically correct, and he could probably pleasure a woman, and anything else in this world, better than he could. He sat there and wondered if the blue and livewire skin had anything to do with it, and he had finally decided that it did. He shuddered as he put himself into role reversal, wondering what making love to a superwoman of Manhattan's capacity would be like. He stifled a groan and told himself to calm down; he was getting excited. And so, because he was no Dr. Manhattan, and instead a slightly pudgy brown-haired _human_, he had tried to turn his attention elsewhere.

He hadn't meant for his attention to land on his sociopathic and violent partner, Rorschach. Dan had never considered himself the type to "swing the other way", but he'd never been religious and didn't see anything extremely wrong with it. Moreover, he knew it was just loneliness, and that he'd have to be bat-shit insane for Rorschach to ever reciprocate his fantasies. Daniel justified this new line of thinking with simple curiosity; he had never seen Rorschach act in any normal way towards women. Did they scare him? Was he just shy? Or was it something else? He wondered if his partner got excited about anything at all. He wondered what Rorschach would sound like in the throes of passion, if he was capable of ever feeling such a thing. Deep inside, Daniel knew that Rorschach was human, but sometimes he was fooled. He didn't know what his partner looked like, what his real name was, where he lived (if he lived anywhere at all), or what he did in his off time.

After a few years of being partners, Daniel had tried to find out some of this information, but now he was just used to the "hurms" and "ehns" and guttural grunts and half-sentences of his partner's strained dialogue. He sometimes wondered if Rorschach would change pitch if he were being ravished. He wondered how violent his partner would be in foreplay or in the act itself; if his usual crime-fighting autopilot would kick in, or if he would be uncharacteristically gentle, would he lie there and take it, would he participate…

For the fifth night in a row, Dan woke up in a cold feverish sweat. He shot straight up, then crashed back down immediately, finding it hard to sit at that exact moment. He turned sideways, and screamed like a girl. There was a shadow in the window, climbing in. Dan glanced blurry-eyed at the clock on the wall; it was 4 o'clock in the morning. The shadow finished its entrance and shut the window quickly, leaving the cold night air outside where it belonged. Dan propped himself up on one arm. He had a strange hunch of who it was, and when it _hurmed_, his suspicions were confirmed.

"Rorschach? Is that you? What's wrong? It's so late, er, so early…" Dan's voice trailed off as the shorter vigilante came closer to the bed.

"Sorry Daniel," he gruffed.

Dan got goose bumps.

"Can I use your restroom?"

"Uh…sure, sure. Go ahead. Yeah, man, whatever you need in there."

Rorschach grunted and walked past the edge of the bed, and paused. Dan wondered how he could even see in the dark, or at least enough to get in the window via his grappling hook gun and across his bedroom. Then, as if on cue, his partner dug in his coat pocket. He pulled out a flashlight, smacked it on his hand a few times, and it clicked on. With his way then lit, Rorschach ducked into the bathroom.

Dan stared at the shut door for a minute, and then rubbed his eyes, and turned on the lights. He put on his glasses, and a robe, and went downstairs to make coffee, setting out a mug for Rorschach as well. While the coffee brewed, he went back upstairs, and what he saw, he never expected.

His partner was slightly dripping wet—he had obviously taken a shower—and just in his boxers, his back to the bedroom entrance, drying his hair. "Exposed" was the first word that came to Dan's mind. The pudgier man stood silent in the doorway for a minute, observing this sight that he might never see again. Item one: Rorschach was a ginger. Pure, unadulterated redhead. Freckles, all over. Item two: Rorschach was as ripped as hell. His tight muscles threatened to burst through the white freckled skin, proof of years of training, exhausting his body, fighting tirelessly, making himself into the violent justice machine that everyone knew him to be. There was no body fat to him; every curve, every nook and cranny of sculpted muscle was so prominent, and the water trailed down his skin like a gentle river. Dan's mind threw the fantasies into overdrive. He could feel his small spitfire partner beneath him now, feel the sharp angles, his lean frame against his; Dan coughed to take his mind off of it.

Rorschach turned, and his face tightened. His furrowed brow, open red lips, and unruly damp hair made him seem almost comical in his mortification. His eyes narrowed at Daniel, who was in slippers, boxers, and a short brown robe. Rorschach let out an exasperated sigh, a mixture of anger and hopelessness. "Thanks," he said, hesitantly. "Needed that."

He'd seen the orange hair and sharp jaw line and freckled cheeks before. His mind's eye immediately went to the green-clad nut who paraded around New York with the "The End Is Nigh" sign; he'd seen Rorschach for years and not known it. Dan gasped slightly, and then composed himself. "Hey, uh, no problem, man. Any time. We're partners, y'know."

"Hurm." Rorschach's shoulders tightened at the recognition.

The two of them awkwardly stared at each other, analyzing, assessing, sizing each other up. Rorschach awkwardly twisted the towel in his hands before he spoke again.

"Clothes need washing. Wouldn't mind, would you? Particularly bad struggle tonight. Just feel the need to be…refreshed." Rorschach hung his head, in embarrassment, as if wanting something so human was alien and wrong.

"Hey, no problem. I'll get them." Dan lightly tied the robe around him, stepped closer to his partner, took the towel, went into the bathroom and grabbed the mass of brown and purple and white, and started out.

Rorschach stopped him, his face now matching his hair. "Um, Daniel."

Dan turned and smiled the boyish grin. "Yeah?"

"Underclothes need washing too. Perhaps…a spare pair…while waiting for mine?"

Dan stifled a chuckle. Poor Rorschach was showing his face, his body, and this must have been hell for him. It was also one of the first times the sociopath had asked for anything directly; usually Dan just came home to a little note with where a can of beans once sat.

"Oh, sure! Here, let me find you a pair." Dan set the clothes down and went into the big walk-in closet. On a back shelf were clothes he had outgrown long ago and had vowed to donate to charity; some things in his life were on a perpetual to-do list. He dug in the bottom of the pile, upsetting it, and pulled out a pair of shorts probably three times smaller than he was. Oh, the old days. Although he tried to keep himself fit, the midsection was just determined to have some fat on it. He was slightly jealous of his partner for being so toned. And the fantasies came back. He suppressed them. Dan turned around, and found that Rorschach had followed him into the closet. He was just eyeing all of the clothes. Dan knew Rorschach didn't have very much, hence the frequent break-ins; the shorter man was too embarrassed to ask for charity; he just took. Dan didn't mind, but he'd feel a lot better if his help were asked for in the open.

Rorschach saw his partner looking at him. "Sorry," he said. "Lots of clothes. Never saw a closet so full."

"Yeah, I don't wear half of them. I've been meaning to clean it out, donate some to charity, you know. Time sometimes escapes me." He approached Rorschach and handed him the shorts. "About the smallest I have. They'll do for now, I'm sure."

The ginger grunted and turned, running to the bathroom to change quickly, and emerging again, throwing the dirty shorts in the pile.

Daniel stared. They fit him. They fit him _too_ well, actually. He picked up the clothes pile and started down the stairs, the red-haired vigilante trailing.

They sat and had coffee in the warm kitchen. Two men, having a quiet coffee at 4 in the morning. Dan, although he was tired, was actually enjoying himself. Rorschach kept his eyes down most of the time, or completely closed, wishing that he didn't have to be so exposed, pretending, maybe, that his real face was still on after all. The larger partner spoke finally.

"Rorschach…can I ask you something?"

Rorschach opened his eyes. His cup of coffee had been empty for a while. "Hurm?" he grunted.

"What…what do you do when we're not on patrol? Do you have other hobbies? Do you go on dates?"

Rorschach's face showed every emotion all at once. His lips curled into a slight smirk. Dan enjoyed seeing the real face, even though it wasn't handsome. It would take anyone else some getting used to, but he didn't mind; he had been anxious to see the human beneath the mask and coat for a long time. Any face would do.

"I don't understand, Daniel," said the raspy voice. "Always watching. Must keep vigilant. I train, keep myself strong. We must exact justice, always. I cannot afford a lax lifestyle." He hung his head, yawned. "And no, no dates. Crazy."

"Oh. Well, I dunno, thought I'd ask. You know everything about me. I hardly know you. I don't even know your name."

Rorschach grunted. "Not necessary, Daniel. Don't bother." He looked at his partner, studied him, his brown unruly hair, his thick but still mostly-fit form, his kind eyes. His partner was staring back, pleading, in a way. Rorschach found it amusing how easily he could read Daniel Dreiberg. Only, and he frowned at this realization, now that Dan had seen his face, his partner was probably learning to read his body language as well. Daniel wasn't stupid. Naïve, maybe, but not stupid.

"I'm sorry, Rorschach. I didn't mean to upset you." Dan withdrew, and sipped his coffee.

The ginger sighed. "Walter. Walter Kovacs. Used to work at dry cleaner's." He stared. "There. No more, Daniel. Feel too exposed already. Uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable? With me?" Dan sniffed. He felt like crying. They were partners, they had each other's backs, and now Rorschach—Walter—was uncomfortable? No wonder he broke in when Dan wasn't here; minimal contact. Dan set the mug down hard. "Dammit."

"No, Daniel." Rorschach rolled his eyes and grunted. "Not uncomfortable with you. Uncomfortable without face and clothes. Don't like talking about self, either. Not as open as you. But." He stared his partner in the face. "Not uncomfortable with you. If I could be like this with anyone, it's you."

Dan grinned. Those were the longest grammatically correct sentences he'd heard Rorschach say in a long time. And he felt better now. At least the crazy hermit could talk to _someone_. Dan was glad he had that privilege. He got up to get more coffee, and as he did so, put his hand on Rorschach's shoulder, as he had done countless times when they had been successful in stopping a crime. This time, though, with bare hand and bare shoulder, it was different. When their skin touched, Rorschach's hair stood on edge all over, and Dan thought he saw a blush. His own nerves were racing, too. "I'm glad," he said, and held the touch for a second longer. "I want to be your friend."

"Only friend," said Rorschach, slightly shaking now.

Dan lifted his hand. This could be interpreted in two ways. Curse Rorschach's way of talking. Either it meant that Rorschach sensed his intentions and was staving him off, saying that they could "only be friends", or this could mean that Dan was his "only friend." He wondered which it was as he poured a second cup, put the sugar cubes and cream in it, and sat.

An hour and half later, Rorschach's laundry was done. The two had migrated to the couch, watching the early morning news. Dan reclined, half sitting, on most of the couch, and Rorschach sat stiffly on the opposite edge, making himself as small as possible. He wasn't relaxed at all.

"Hey, man, you know you can sit back. It's a soft couch. There's not spikes that are gonna come out and poke through you." Dan's eyes didn't move from the TV, so he didn't notice Rorschach grab one of the pillows and curl up at his feet until he felt the pressure of Rorschach's head on his calves.

"Hey, uh, I can scoot up if you want."

"No need. Fine like this."

"Okay. You want a blanket or something?" Both of them were still in their underwear, and Dan had gotten cold, even with the robe. His thickest flannel throw was on top of him now.

"No."

A few more minutes passed. "Oh, hey, I bet your clothes are ready. I kind of forgot." Dan chuckled and slipped off the couch. When he came back, his short partner was curled up under the blanket, in his spot. His brows were furrowed, and he was breathing heavily. "Hey, they're…done." He folded his arms. "Huh. Guess you were tired there, buddy. I'll just fold them and leave them in here." Dan started to turn again, but something stopped him. He felt a tug on the bottom of his robe. He looked down and found a freckled hand gripping it.

"Ehn," grumbled Rorschach, who couldn't exactly communicate what he wanted.

Dan noticed then that there was room enough for him, in front of Rorschach. Dan tried not to giggle. He took of his robe, peeled back the blanket, and settled beside his partner. "Say, Rorschach—"

Rorschach, eyes still shut, put a rough hand on his mouth. "Don't."

Dan obeyed and tried not to squish his smaller counterpart as he wrapped around him. Rorschach shifted slightly, and Dan felt the week-old stubble graze his neck. As he slept, the dream did not resurface.


End file.
